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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22712401">Sentiment from Afar</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon'>SlytherinsDragon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holmescest Works [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Disguised Sherlock Holmes, Emotional Sex, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Past Drug Use, Reichenbach Feels, Smut, holmescest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 14:22:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,454</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22712401</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It all begins with letters that were never meant to be seen...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holmescest Works [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>250</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts">LadyGlinda</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Started writing this one a few weeks back. Always wanted to do a Reichenbach fic. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>1.</b>
</h1><p>
  <em>
    <span>It is the day of your funeral, little brother. The summer breezes blow gently in the air; the elusive sun shines – radiant – against the backdrop of blue. Just another day in London. Your dear doctor is hunched over your grave. You’d laugh at how ludicrous the tombstone is in its excessive grandiosity – which is perhaps why I chose it in the first place. He mourns… like a lover… a widow while the rest of your little friends amble about, talking in hushed voices.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You died for them. Dr. Watson. Your DI, Gregory Lestrade. Your landlady – Mrs. Hudson. You being a high-functioning sociopath is perhaps the worst lie I’ve ever heard. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did you love him? Your loyal Boswell. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Were you two ever lovers? I could never deduce it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When everyone leaves, I walk to your stone. The sun is setting now, setting the sky afire with colour seldom seen in this part of the world. My finger traces your name, etched immaculately – but yet so coldly. Before I know it, my cheek rests upon the marble. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I close my eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know it is a trick. A facade. Did we not plan this for months on end? But that is only the logical side of me reasoning – and some (perhaps you) may argue that it is the only side that I possess. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Alas brother! The senses! Seeing your death-defying leap. Your body in a crumpled heap on the ground. That is the last image I carry of you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are in Baghdad. Nevertheless, it feels as if you are dead. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I imagined it. Your death. Many times over the years. The drugs. The overdoses. Your recklessness.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You asked me once – in the haze of withdrawal – just… why did I care? I can see you now. Feverish, sweat-drenched, covered in the stench of your own emesis, your limbs cramping… on that ratty torn mattress in some god-forsaken drughouse in the outskirts of London. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I remember. There was an unnatural brightness in your eyes. The fragility of your body. I always feared that I would be too late – finding your lifeless body amidst such abhorrent squalor.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When I didn’t reply quickly enough – you threw answers at me in between bouts of retching. For Mummy and Father. That it is a disgrace to have a junkie as a sibling for my career. For duty. Like everything else that I had supposedly done in my life. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You never hit upon the truth. I cared, brother mine. I wanted to be your friend. Your confidante. And nothing.... Nothing hurt me more than to see you in such agony. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wanted you to be happy. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I became your protector instead. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You resented me for it. The only balm, the silver lining, brother dear – is that you were alive to despise me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And when you allowed others to come into your life… I tasted for the first time the fruit of jealousy. The sin of envy. I watched from afar. Wishing that I was a friend instead of an archenemy banished to the realm of the shadows. Ha. Brother – you would say the shadows are my natural habitat. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But, I digress. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A few months ago, you came to me. Moriarty needed to be finished. I remembered you saying. And you needed my help. The drought was over, bringing the rain. A garden was cultivated. Laughter over research. Schemes over dinner. Something grew in that garden, dear brother. Slowly, carefully – making its presence known only now as I stand here. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will say it. I am alone now in the graveyard. The sun has set. It is another burden I must carry alone – for it is a most forbidden and poisoned fruit that has bloomed. You would be disgusted. You would never want to see me again. But, Sherlock – you are an incredibly easy person to fall for. Never have I ever dreamed that I would fall under the spell of your thrall like the likes of Dr. Watson and Hooper. And perhaps… even Ms. Adler.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My lips meet the cold stone of your grave. Time has become immaterial. I have absolutely no inkling about how long I had stood here. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There. Now that I have spelt it out in ink, perhaps this burdensome sentiment will disappear. Fade back into the shadows where it ought to belong. But, I suspect that my condition is chronic, bordering on terminal. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Enough.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The paper tears with the force that Mycroft applies to the pen as he writes the last word. Disgusted, he carefully folds up the letter – firmly forming the creases. He pulls open a drawer and shoves it in there. Out of sight. Out of mind. He shuts the drawer. Standing up, he picks the tumbler of whiskey on his desk and knocks it back carelessly. Before he leaves for bed, his eyes involuntarily dart to the enormous world map that is tacked onto one of his study’s walls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A purple pin is pushed through Baghdad, Iraq.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The leaves are changing colour, dear brother. From a vibrant green to yellows and oranges – even reds as the chlorophyll within them break down. It signifies the inevitable approach of winter. I deviated from my usual routine today. At lunch, I opted to take a walk at St. James, after scarfing down a sandwich. The leaves crunch underfoot as I take in the view of the London skyline framed by the majesty of the great trees. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are in Canada, today. My agents had provided me with some CCTV stills of you roaming the streets of Toronto. You would laugh, brother dear, at my first thought upon seeing these images. I miss your hair – those wild dark curls that Mummy is always telling you to get cut. And blond! A ghastly colour! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wonder what your hair would feel like between my fingertips. Silky? Smooth? Would you purr if I caress your scalp? Or would you prefer it if I tugged at them? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why am I even asking these questions? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know the answers. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I believe you were twelve then. I had come home from Oxford during the Christmas break, only to find you in the grip of some nasty illness. Perhaps the flu. You were feverish, sweating, weak – completely out of it, brother. I walked by your room once – late in the night. I found you moaning in distress, so I went in. I had your head in my lap, and I ran my fingers through your sweat-drenched hair. You calmed down. And you did purr. Eventually, you fell asleep. As did I. The fever broke when I woke up. You were sleeping comfortably, reminding me of when you were a menace of a child. And I ducked down and pressed a light kiss against your forehead, as I had done every night when you demanded that we share the bed together in your toddler days. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thoughts of you constantly churn to the forefront of my mind these days. Your laughter when we shared a joke. Your thoughtful silences. The way your eyes change under the light – each glance worth a thousand words. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or even more. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ha. Even your bratty behaviour makes it to my mental montage of you. The way you flounce off when things do not go your way. The mischievous glint in your eyes when you are up to no good. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And… the one image that would have most certainly booked me a berth in Hell – that view of your tantalizing bottom in Buckingham Palace. If I had been smarter, I would have realized it then that there was something just a little illegal in regard to my desires toward you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Regardless… realizing it earlier wouldn’t have changed things. Nothing will ever happen between us. You would be appalled. You would never want to speak, let alone, see me again. Nothing is worth that risk. It is, perhaps, a small mercy that I only realize the extent of my affections toward you now. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I lost track of time as I ambled around the park. I missed several meetings, including one with the Prime Minister. And then – it rained. It poured. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It stormed! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Guess who was the genius who left their constant companion back at the office. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anthea gave me the look of the worst sort of pity when I finally managed to make it back to my office. She knew that there had been something on my mind. My suit was utterly drenched – if not ruined. And I called it a day. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Blast it all! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft crumples the letter in his hands. Just as he is about to shred and bin it, he changes his mind. With utmost care, he unfolds the paper, straightening the creases, before flattening it between two enormous texts. Manfully, he had resisted the urge to commit his words to paper for the past three months or so, but the need to do so had become pathologically unbearable within the past few hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, before he goes to bed, Mycroft returns to retrieve the letter. He folds it and presses the thick creamy paper to his lips before dropping it into the same drawer where the first one of its kind resides.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where have you gone, brother mine? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My agents cannot find any trace of your existence in Buenos Aires. I am greatly concerned. Brother… please give word that you are okay as soon as you can. Damn. I know you will never see these words. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But still! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I sent a communication to Y just now, who will update me with the latest.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think there is anything I wouldn’t give to see you again in the flesh, dear one. I want to see your smile. Hear your laugh. Be on the end of another one of your cake jokes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t care. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I just want you here. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>With me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Burying his head in his arms, Mycroft closes his eyes. He hasn’t slept in two days. Sure, little brother had always been a concern of his; a matter to worry about constantly… but now his heart (in which the denizens of Whitehall would classify its existence as a myth) aches with a longing – a despair – that he cannot assuage. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This isn’t a joke, Sherlock.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been four days… and no word yet. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mummy and Father are pestering me at every other hour, eager for news. It’s eroding away at my last nerve. They might be our parents, but I am the one who loves you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please. Brother. Be okay. I beg of you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Y is looking for you right now. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Come out, come out… wherever you may be!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah. Brother mine. It’s been awhile since I last used these words. When you were a child hiding away after the performance of some mischief. I am sure our Aunt Isabelle still has nightmares of those muddy toads you left in her bed. Mummy gave you quite a scolding while I stood in the next room, trying desperately not to giggle. For no one liked Aunt Isabelle. If you recall, I spent an afternoon helping you catch those damned toads, and I made sure that some of that mud still had worms wriggling in it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I suppose I wasn’t your stuffy not-fun older brother then. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You have no idea, little brother, how tempted I am to leave London and come find you myself in Argentina. Alas, that may put our well-laid plans into jeopardy, so I shall resist for now. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Y found you! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank god! Thank all the gods and goddesses! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are alive. You are breathing. A bit battered, but with nothing that time cannot fix.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can finally sleep now. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear, don’t do that again. As your older brother, I will be very cross next time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As the man who loves you, I will... – I don’t even know what I would do. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Throwing his pen down on his desk, Mycroft finally leaves for his bedroom for the first time in over a week.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It is snowing, little brother. Pieces of fluff drifting down from the clouds. You are in Nepal now. In the mountains… hiding out in one of the monasteries. Are you dressed as a monk, brother? Did you shave off the remainder of your hair? Are you studying the ways of the Buddha? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you miss London, brother? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>London certainly misses you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not the same without you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wonder, brother, if you’ve ever had a lover. Sure, I’ve called you a virgin to your face, but I’ve never been a hundred percent sure. You are the scientist, the thinker – the doer. But, dear, I know you better. You are a closet hedonist. Those clothes! Your bedsheets. The music. God. Even the drugs. You’ve always insisted on the ‘good stuff’ until I cut you off your funds. Hoping that there would have been a rock bottom to your self-destructive behaviour.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Brother, I think you were a sensual being once. Maybe during your days at Cambridge. Your inner scientist would have demanded it. As would your inner sybarite. At least a woman. A man. Maybe even both at the same time. Although if I had to deduce your preferences… you would prefer to be with a man. I wonder what your sexual preferences would be. Would you bottom? Would you top? Or are you one of those who do not engage in penetrative intercourse at all? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What would you look like in the throes of orgasm? Would you shudder and grunt? Would your neck be extended, exposing that gorgeous neck of yours while your plush lips are opened in an ‘o’ of ecstasy? Are you a screamer? Or would you come silently?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good Lord. I need to stop drinking. I need to throw this piece of paper into the fire where it ought to belong along with my desires. It is Christmas. As you can see –  idle hands are truly the devil’s playthings. An apt phrase. You can never see these musings, brother. You would be horrified at the depths of my depraved mind. Even more so if you are actually a virgin, dearest. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And, really, there is nothing wrong with that. I apologize if I’ve made you think otherwise.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merry Christmas, little brother. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The flames flicker and crackle merrily in front of him. Mycroft isn’t even sure how long he had been standing here – in front of the fireplace, mesmerized by the fire. In one of his hands, he holds a few sheets of paper. Finally, he moves to toss the lot into the fire, but just before the moment of release – he groans with frustration and stomps back to his desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear little brother,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your landlady called me yesterday regarding the fingers and toes in your fridge that were in various stages of decomposition next to the milk. They were starting to smell. Forgive me, for I told her to contact your pathologist for their disposal. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will make it up to you when you come back. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Speaking of your friends… who do you miss the most?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your Detective Inspector – Gregory Lestrade – who gave you an outlet for your unique skills. Who was able to help you during a dark time of drugs and aimlessness where I could not. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your Pathologist – Dr. Molly Hooper – who had an enormous crush on you that you’ve stepped on many times and taken advantage off. A constant source of body parts to sate your boredom. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your Doctor – Dr. John Watson – your blogger, your flatmate – some would say your handler. The man who used to visit your gravestone every day… although now his pilgrimages have diminished in frequency. He mourned, little brother. Like a lover – not a flatmate. A widower. Were you two more than friends? Did you ever want something more from him? I could never deduce any form of sexual congress on your person during the months we spent together planning. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Frankly, I am jealous. You would laugh, but it is true. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you miss me at all? Your big brother? The British government – as you so enjoyed calling me? Your archenemy? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or are you relieved to be free from my interference? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>On second thought, it might be better if I did not know the truth.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>x</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And what of Ms. Irene Adler? I know that she is alive, dear brother. Of course, I am aware of when you leave and return to the UK. Did you really think I wouldn’t? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Perchance, brother – did you stop by and see her in San Francisco while you were carrying out the American phase of our plan? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did you love her? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever you did feel for her… it was certainly enough for you to betray your country… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yet… I still fell in love with you. I think that says more of me than of you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear one, I heard your voice today. Granted, we only exchanged a few sentences about your current task at hand – but it is as close to nirvana as I will ever get.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft searches his study frantically for the letters. They are nowhere to be found. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is too late. In his haste to prepare the latest packet of intelligence for Sherlock before his agent had to leave to catch her flight to New York City, he had evidently stuffed those incriminating letters into the envelope. He would not be in contact with her until long after she hands off the package to his brother, as the delivery is only a small part of her busy itinerary. Mycroft slumps down at his desk with his palms against his forehead, feeling utterly defeated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should have destroyed them when he had a chance. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>2.</b>
</h1><p>
  <span>Leaning heavily on his walking stick – whittled with a knife from a sturdy branch that Sherlock had found while wandering around the various lakes in Patagonia – he looks out from his perch, the edge of a sheer cliff. Mountains loom around him, with their snow-decorated peaks and hidden glaciers – while gem-like lakes ornamented by flora lie on the ground below. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fall from here would certainly end him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Recently he had dismantled the last American cell in the sweltering heat of Florida – leaving all the culprits tied up in their dingy warehouse and all the evidence required to persecute in the hands of his local contact who happened to be a FBI agent. The coup will definitely earn the gleeful lad a much deserved promotion. News of the downfall of Moriarity’s second largest operation had made its way to their sister branches in Asia and Europe – so it had been time for Sherlock to disappear and allow the panic and vigilance in those organizations to die down before starting his work anew in a different continent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So as Louis Markham – a globe-trotting Canadian – Sherlock had gone back to Argentina as a tourist. Decked out in a windbreaker, a ton of layers, wool socks, practical hiking boots and an enormous hiking pack (complete with the Canadian flag stitched on it), he had been roaming the wilderness. He had always been a city person; the concrete jungle with its intriguing criminal elements is his preferred habitat. Nature had always been wasted on him – nothing irked him more than having to spend his time in the English countryside to visit Mummy and Father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just… so mind-numbingly dull. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stepping away from the cliff – he continues on his way. If he finishes his hike today, he could spend the night in a comfortable and highly rated lodge – and the next day, he would spend a few days on a luxury cruise ship, posing as a violinist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although, he has to admit that there is something awe-inspiring about these trails. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If there is anything that he’s learned from his travels – it is what loneliness truly feels like. Before John had come into his life – he had considered himself a loner. Alas… he had been wrong. There had been Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly… And, now – he truly had solitude. No one knows him here. Even if they did, for a day or two – Sherlock would be gone the next. Vanishing into the ether, only to surface with a new identity. There are days that he forgets himself – for when one goes on for so long pretending that they are someone else… that someone else becomes incorporated into their identity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wind howls – growing stronger as sunset nears. From his coat pocket – he pulls out a bandana – red with a skull and crossbones at the corner. A concession to his own (Sherlock’s) personality. He wraps it tight around his face, before putting up the hood of his windbreaker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could be worse – he thinks. At least it is the dry season. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An hour more. He figures. Then the lodge should come into view. The trek becomes harder as the wind starts blowing against him. Despite his layers, he is freezing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft. His brother’s name reverberates in his head as a version of him materializes in his mind. Not in his untouchable three-piece suit, but just casually in his shirt and trousers. The shirt sleeves are rolled up – as if he had just done the dishes, or he is pondering some complex problem in the comfort of his own study. With blue eyes that normally looked cool and neutral – but seem to soften with fondness whenever he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking. And, there is the slight curve upwards of his lips – a smile. One that had appeared more often with each passing day of scheming before Sherlock’s jump off Bart’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock didn’t even know how it had happened. Or exactly when. Sometime during their months of planning and scheming to take down Moriarity, he had stopped regarding his brother as a necessary nuisance and as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>man</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers staring too long at Mycroft’s elegant and immaculately manicured fingers – surprisingly delicate appearing – but physically powerful. He had seen his brother practice mixed martial arts in his early twenties, during the days he had participated in a lot of legwork – pounding away mercilessly at the punching bag with his flying fists. And… oh god… even knocking out one of Sherlock’s unreasonably nasty drug dealers before hauling Sherlock’s high and sorry arse home. Of course, nowadays – such fingers hold exquisite pens, meant for signing paperwork that had great repercussions for Great Britain and the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had all gone downhill from there, for he had caught himself admiring his brother’s long legs, then his bum (Mycroft had bent down to pick up a paper that Sherlock had thrown onto the floor in frustration, and needless to say – he had promptly forgotten why he had been annoyed in the first place) and then his face. There had been the looks of exasperation whenever Sherlock was deliberately vexing him. Or being stupid. The fond looks that he had mentioned earlier. His brother on his knees in a ratty drug house, pleading for Sherlock to stop doing this to himself after every intervention he could think of had failed. Before Sherlock had lost consciousness that day, he had remarked to himself that his brother actually did seem to care. And then – of course, his brain had forgotten it the next time he had woken up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now… he remembers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. And shortly before he had left London – the bulge in Mycroft’s trousers. It’s funny – how he had never noticed that before. Now that he’s seen it, he couldn’t help keep noticing. And, the tightness of Mycroft’s trousers did nothing to mitigate his problem. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t even know why he had grown to resent his brother so much. Actually, yes – he does. The drugs. But the longer he had spent in his brother’s company, the more he had remembered about the good times before the drugs. Of playing in Mummy’s garden, the one time they had gone to the beach (Mycroft had driven, and Sherlock had been at his brattiest) for a weekend and his child-self running after Mycroft, eager to go wherever he went like a faithful puppy – even when his brother had been taking lessons with a private tutor. They would even do Mycroft’s bloody homework together. Or at least – Mycroft would patiently sit and explain and Sherlock would listen, making the process take at least three times as long as it ought to be. But Mycroft had never complained. His big brother had even snuck him ice cream, chocolate cake and ginger nuts for his sweet tooth… especially during that awful year when Mummy had gone on a health kick and had insisted that everyone in the house follow her strict diet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t even matter now. All those resentments had disappeared over his last months in London. Sherlock had even dared to come up with a word for what he feels for his brother. A scary word with four letters. In fact, he had realized it a few days before he had left. And in retrospect, the timing had been fortuitously impeccable because Mycroft would have noticed that something is terribly off with him, if he hadn’t already. That little brother is high on love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He winces at that thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he has who-knows-how-long to get over his illegal feelings for his brother before he gets back to London. That is – if he ever makes it back... And of course, in the worst case – he could just stay out of England for the rest of his life. The last thing he wants is for his proper ‘caring is not an advantage’ big brother to reject, mock and despise him for these feelings that he has no control over. After all, he is supposed to be dead. And the risk of dying from his mission is higher than his chances of surviving it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lodge finally comes into view, just as the last sliver of the sun begins to fade into the horizon, giving way to twilight. At the beginning of his journey – in the Middle East (Afghanistan, Iraq, Kuwait, Lebanon), he had spent his time talking to an imaginary John, but within a few days – mind-John had gone away – to be replaced by big brother. And since then – it is the thoughts of Mycroft, imaginary conversations with Mycroft and facts related to Mycroft that had kept him sane… kept him going through the hard times. Made time fly by faster. Sometimes, he would wake up and mentally announce to himself – </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am Sherlock, brother of Mycroft</span>
  </em>
  <span> – before going into his act for today. Mycroft had become his anchor – keeping him moored in a sea of insanity and loneliness. Keeping his brain from destroying itself during bouts of nothing to do – when he had to lay down low in a hidey-hole for awhile, or simply waiting for an interminable connection in the airport. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After he checks in – speaking with Markham’s rather laboured Duolingo-acquired Spanish – the receptionist passes him the key to his room, vouchers for what are reputed to be a tasty dinner and breakfast and a packet in a regular padded envelope with its seal intact. Ah. Information. From Mycroft. Perfect. Something to keep him entertained before he goes to bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s fingers still itch to write, despite the disaster that had happened almost a month back. By now, he is positive that the packet had already made its way into Sherlock’s hands. Undoubtedly, his brother had seen them, skimmed through them in disgust – before committing them to a fire… or a shredder. Maybe even ripping them up with his bare hands… Something that his pathetic self had been unable to do. Iceman! Antarctica. Pah! What utter tosh! What do those idiots know anyway? The best case scenario is that Sherlock doesn’t read them… but his brother is too curious not to. How could Mycroft ever face him again? Look him in the eye? Will he have to avoid the love of his life completely when Sherlock finally comes home? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, it is that thought that fills him with dread. The idea that he will never see his brother again in the flesh. That he will never interact with him in a meaningful way. Maybe when Sherlock returns, he will desert his post and self-exile himself to somewhere like the Himalayas or Nunavut. Certainly those places would be as cold and as empty as how he feels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good Lord – he smacks his forehead with his palm – he sounds no worse than an angsty teenage girl! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Jaguar stops in front of 221 Baker St. He alights by himself. Using his own keys he opens the front door, not even bothering to straighten the crooked door knocker. He mounts the seventeen steps to 221B and inserts another key to enter his brother’s flat. Half of the things in 221B are gone now. Dr. Watson had moved out of the flat just yesterday – barely eight months after Sherlock’s sham funeral to a miserable bedsit in the outskirts of London. From a recent CCTV feed, he had observed that the former flatmate’s limp had returned with a vengeance and that the doctor had acquired a drinking habit to deal with his psychological issues. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seems to run in the family… Mycroft had thought. Maladaptive coping mechanisms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, Dr. Watson’s things aside, it appears that all of Sherlock’s knickknacks, scientific equipment and curios had been left untouched. The fridge and freezer had been recently cleaned and left barren except for some unexpired laboratory reagents. The skull grins cheerily at him from the mantel and he could see that Mrs. Hudson hadn’t bothered to repair the last three bullet holes that his errant little brother had left behind. Nor asked Mycroft to cover the cost of the repair. Sentiment. The lack of dust suggests to Mycroft that Mrs. Hudson comes here frequently to reminisce. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath, he pushes open the door that leads into Sherlock’s bedroom. No one had been in here since Sherlock had left. It is almost like a time capsule of sorts. In terms of organization, it is the neatest room of the flat. He runs his fingers against the high thread-count bedsheets, while glancing at the framed periodic table. His mouth almost gapes open like a goldfish when he sees the photo on Sherlock’s nightstand. A picture of himself and Sherlock. Taken by Mummy. Probably the only decent picture of the two of them together in their adulthood. It had meant to be a photo of only Mycroft – sitting on an armchair, but Sherlock had snuck in at the last second, his head almost resting on Mycroft’s shoulder. It had meant to be what is colloquially called a ‘photobomb’ attempt. There are no other pictures on display in Sherlock’s room. None of the detective inspector, Ms. Adler or even Dr. Watson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps little brother doesn’t despise him as much as Mycroft thought he did. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh but he will despise you now.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The dark voice in his head reminds him. Turning away, he opens Sherlock’s wardrobe and finds himself sniffing one of Sherlock’s shirts. The soft cotton still smells of him; a mix of that luxurious shampoo and conditioner that he prefers, tea and something intrinsically him. There are various boxes at the bottom, and Mycroft goes through them – pairs of shoes, more photographs from their younger years, presents that Mycroft had given him over the years that he had thought Sherlock had long discarded, his Bachelor's diploma in Science and at the very back he finds another shoe box. However – it is too light to contain shoes… Curious, Mycroft takes it out and opens it – finding a few sheets of loose paper, written in Sherlock’s unmistakable handwriting. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You look tired today, dear. During the course of our conversation, you coughed no less than nineteen times and sneezed no more than six. Perhaps a touch of the flu. You had no idea how much I wanted to tell you to sit down. To wrap a warm quilt around your person. And to fetch you some of Mrs. Hudson’s chicken noodle soup. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Mycroft could feel his eyes widen at the words. Letters. From a man who had claimed that sentiment is a chemical defect. It seems that little brother and he deal with the softer emotions in the same way. Damn. Who could these letters be directed to? An ugly sort of jealousy rises within him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nevertheless, his curiosity piqued, he reads onwards.</span>
</p><p><em><span>You had no idea how much I had wanted to place my hand against your forehead, to assess if you were running a fever, dearest. But really, it would</span></em> <em><span>just be an excuse to touch you. And if you were, I would run and fetch cool moist cloths and a paracetamol. Instead, I insulted you and fled to my room to sulk on my bed. To berate myself for my inability to deviate from my standard operating behaviours. </span></em></p><p>
  <span>Mycroft puts the scrap of paper back in the box. Imagine that. His little brother caring for a lucky someone to the point where he fantasizes playing ‘nurse’. But – who is the identity of this special someone that had caught Sherlock’s attention? The letter could be addressed to anyone who is in the habit of visiting Baker Street and getting a lashing from his brother’s sharp tongue. Or even Dr. Watson. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what is the point of reading these paper scraps anyways? To elucidate who his brother had succumbed to sentiment for? So that Mycroft could hate them and himself for the rest of his existence? Alas – he is far too intrigued to let these private words lie. But, damn – he would need a stiff drink or two to endure reading more of these scribblings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking the box, the Stradivarius and a few other objects of value for safekeeping, he leaves for his lonely house. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>3.</b>
</h1><p>
  <span>By the time Mycroft had sat down on his armchair in his study, popped open the cork of the approximately four and a half grand bottle of Glenfiddich and poured a tumblerful – his phone chimes with a notification. Sighing, he picks up the device.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sir, you should check this out. A </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A YouTube link appears in her next text. Curious, Mycroft taps on the link. The video only has a few views. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man appears on the screen and stands on a dais – of what appears to be a richly decorated lounge space. He is tall and slender, his matte shirt open at the collar – offering a tantalizing glimpse of collarbones and neck musculature covered by alabaster skin. Dirty-blond curls tumble artfully, almost reaching his shoulders. There are the sounds of people chatting and laughing and clinking glasses in the background. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft could tell that this video had been taken on a luxury cruise ship of some sort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The violin is slowly brought up to his chin. With startling grace, the bow follows. The exquisite notes from the main theme of the Red Violin caprice flow from the strings following a breath – which seems to hush the audience. Mycroft just watches, somewhat transfixed by the movements of the violinist. There is something almost sensual about how the man’s body moves as he expresses the music with his dazzling technique, telling the bloody and sorrowful tale of the Red Violin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Does he have a type? Mycroft wonders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In build, the man is similar to his brother. His eyes are a startling shade of cat-like green – and there is just something familiar about his facial structure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But why did Anthea send him this link? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oddly enough, it is the idiosyncrasies of the violinist that give Mycroft his answer. The way he coaxes tender colour from the violin by using the upper part of his bow. The short light bouncy strokes he uses to create whimsy. Even the vibrato. They betray his identity. It would be coincidence for a violinist to share one or two aspects of his brother’s technique, but this many? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlikely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft feels like an idiot for not deducing that this is his brother simply by his looks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But alas, how many hours did he hear Sherlock practice during their formative years? He knows of his brother’s imperfections – opting to aim for expression over technical perfection. The time Sherlock had invested to create a special unique sound – should he ever wished to play professionally as a soloist in adulthood. Of course, that had been before his interest in forensic chemistry, his subsequent love affair with chemistry of the recreational variety and his obsession with the art of deduction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pausing the video, he takes a sip of the whiskey – marveling at its smoothness, before bringing up the same video on his laptop. Well, if he is going to have his heart broken by these damnable letters that Sherlock had written to the object of his sentiments – he might as well savour the auditory and visual? perfection that is his brother beforehand. The hair, the eyes and even the face is all wrong (from the magic of disguise) – but it’s close enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it is wonderful to listen to his brother perform instead of the awful violin screeches Sherlock would make to chase him out of his flat. For the ten minutes after pressing play, Mycroft pretends that he had never shipped off those damning letters or found the stack of letters in Sherlock’s room – losing himself in the bliss of ignorance. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The truth is – Sherlock hadn’t had time to look at his brother’s packet until after his stint on the cruise ship. After he had returned to his room following a scrumptious dinner of tender trout in butter sauce at the lodge – he had fallen promptly asleep on his bed after a brief trip to the loo to shower. And… on the cruise ship – his fellow musicians had been partiers – eager to live the life, so there had been a lot of drinks, a lot of fine eating and at some point even the drugs had came out (although when Sherlock mentioned that he had been a former addict – now clean – his companions had taken all the temptations promptly away from his reach). He wouldn’t dare touch the drugs now. Not when he is incognito. If the mission doesn’t kill him – Mycroft certainly will. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To take his mind off the drugs, he had bought several packs of cigarettes and proceeded to smoke them all over the course of the week. It is the lesser evil. His colleagues had insisted on dragging Sherlock off with them at every port – so he hadn’t even had time to himself. He is only lucky that he had a cabin of his own to call home for the week. In fact, it had been an enormous relief when he stepped off the ship for the last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curled up on his bed in a reasonably nice hotel room in Lima, Peru – he finally slices open the packet with a knife he keeps hidden in his clothes. He skims the papers – using his eidetic memory to commit the details of his brother’s intel into his brain. The physical copies must be destroyed before he heads to Singapore in the upcoming month to deal with the exotic animal smuggling ring that Moriarity had set up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does a double-take when he lays his eyes across the following on a well-folded piece of expensively-textured creamy paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It is the day of your funeral, little brother. The summer breezes blow gently in the air; the elusive sun shines – radiant – against the backdrop of blue. Just another day in London. Your dear doctor is hunched over your grave. You’d laugh at how ludicrous the tombstone is in its excessive grandiosity – which is perhaps why I chose it in the first place. He mourns… like a lover… a widow while the rest of your little friends amble about, talking in hushed voices.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh good god. What is this? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is written in his brother’s handwriting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock keeps reading.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You died for them. Dr. Watson. Your DI, Gregory Lestrade. Your landlady – Mrs. Hudson. You being a high-functioning sociopath is perhaps the worst lie I’ve ever heard. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did you love him? Your loyal Boswell. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Were you two ever lovers? I could never deduce it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>No. Sherlock thinks firmly. Never. John had never been his type… Things would be easier if he had been (even as closeted firmly ‘not-gay’ John). Instead, he had gone and fallen for the one person in this world that he can never have. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A few months ago, you came to me. Moriarty needed to be finished. I remembered you saying. And you needed my help. The drought was over, bringing the rain. A garden was cultivated. Laughter over research. Schemes over dinner. Something grew in that garden, dear brother. Slowly, carefully – making its presence known only now as I stand here. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will say it. I am alone now in the graveyard. The sun has set. It is another burden I must carry alone – for it is a most forbidden and poisoned fruit that has bloomed. You would be disgusted. You would never want to see me again. But, Sherlock – you are an incredibly easy person to fall for. Never have I ever dreamed that I would fall under the spell of your thrall like the likes of Dr. Watson and Hooper. And perhaps… even Ms. Adler.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Breathing becomes difficult. His vision blurs as unbidden tears well up in his eyes. Unbelievable. This must be a real trick. Mycroft cannot possibly love him. Certainly not in the illegal manner that Sherlock does. He must be hallucinating. He must. Visual and tactile hallucinations are usually signs of a medical or a substance-induced issue. Not psychosis. He pinches himself to reality-test before rolling up his sleeves to check the crooks of both his arms. No recent track marks. He appears to be awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words that his brother uses removes all ambiguity about the nature of his affections for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh Mycroft… Sherlock doesn’t deserve this. Not after everything he had done to his brother in this life. Judging by the haphazard folding of the papers that come after this one, Mycroft had never intended for anyone, let alone Sherlock, to ever see these letters. By reading the creases, it seems that Mycroft had actually tried destroying these letters. Many times. But obviously, he had failed to do so. Grabbing a pen from the nearby desk, Sherlock writes his responses to each one of his brother’s letters… while tackling the problem of what to do with these increasingly tearstained and dangerous papers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cannot keep these papers on his person. It would lead to his ruin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And… Mycroft’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as he hated to do so, the only option is to destroy these precious documents. He will have to do what his brother could not bring himself to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The notion makes his chest ache. For, they are the only tangible proof of something that he had craved from the depths of his starving soul for so long. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dearest. That case was not good. I am sorry. I managed to both disappoint and offend you in one go. I won’t dive into the particulars as I am sure your recall is perfect. One could almost argue that the outcome was nearly as disastrous as the one involving the late Ms. Adler. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oops. That is something else I should apologize for. Irene is alive thanks to my quick intervention in the mountains of Afghanistan. I am sorry for the deceit, although I don’t regret my course of action. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I suppose the list of things that I owe you an apology for grows longer by the day. Perhaps it is time to atone for my sins in the precious iota of time that I am afforded. Darling, I am afraid. Afraid that your last memory of me is of I being an ungrateful and terribly spoiled brat. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Once again, I am sorry. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, another letter that can apply to more than one recipient. Mycroft cannot recall which case Sherlock is alluding to. After the case of Irene Adler, there had been a few other insignificant cases that Sherlock and he had investigated – but nothing on such a grand scale. Hm. Perhaps a private case with the good Dr. Watson? Ah. But – Sherlock had specified the outcome… What kind of outcome? The case itself? The effect of the case on the object of his brother’s affections? Shrugging, Mycroft takes another sip of his drink before moving on to the next scrap, hastily written on a thick paper napkin. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear one, I enjoyed watching you savour the dinner I had brought back today. Seeing you twirl your linguine around the tines of your fork and stabbing a morsel of lobster before putting it in your mouth to savour the truffle-based sauce. Or how you cut up the rib-eye steak into perfect pieces for the both of us to share. And, how you made sure I ate my vegetables, although I really did need no coaxing to eat those divine brussel sprouts. Your eyes lit up when I finally took out the cannoli along with a pint of pistachio ice cream. I let you mistakenly believe I had brought those culinary delights from Angelo’s, but really I had helped to solve a case involving stolen recipes for a G. Locatelli, a local Michelin-starred chef, and he cooked this special meal for two as a recompense. If only </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The letter stops there. The description of the meal sounds awfully familiar… His taste buds can still recall those delicious flavours; the linguine had been the best he’s ever had. If he had closed his eyes, he could have imagined that he was in Sicily. He had known from the first bite that these dishes were not from Angelo. To keep the peace, he had humoured his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And this high-quality napkin… had been from the bags that had held their divine Italian meal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The napkin drops from Mycroft’s nerveless fingers onto his lap. Surely… his brother hadn’t written these letters with him in mind? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That would be ludicrous. Absurd... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Preposterous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needs more evidence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone chimes again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did no one have anything better to do on a Sunday evening? Sighing, he glances at the screen. He sighs once more. His presence is required. An emergency involving one of the Royals. Another day, another scandal. Damn. The letters will have to wait. Mentally cursing like a sailor, he walks out of his study after knocking back the remainder of the whiskey in his tumbler. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock throws the letters and the rest of the papers in the packet in an empty garbage can. Taking a jug of bleach that he had nicked from one of the housekeeping carts, he pours the entire thing into the container, before adding bottles of water (also taken from the carts) to dilute the bleach. Wrinkling his nose, he stands away from the mixture, and closes the door of the closet to contain the smell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he will have to wait several hours before he goes to ‘borrow’ the handyman’s paint mixer from his closet to churn the papers into a pulp. Picking up the receiver of the phone, he calls for room service. A meal of ceviche (raw chunks of sea bass marinated with bitter orange juice and mixed with onions and chili peppers) and a lomo saltado (stir-fried vegetables with beef, with sides of chips and rice) sounds perfect just about now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laying down on his bed, he rests a palm on his chin. As the bleach breaks down those words that had never been intended for Sherlock’s eyes, he feels himself breaking down as well. By the time room service knocks on his door, he is dabbing at tears threatening to escape from his eyes with a box of tissues. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh… how he misses his brother! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man he loves who loves him back! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steeling himself in preparation, he walks over to open the door for the young maid, Abi. He could deduce her identity from the sounds of her footsteps. She looks sympathetically at him with her brown eyes, and he offers, sadly, with the Spanish of Shaun Hernendaz of Texas. “Mi amante me rompió el corazón.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;My lover broke my heart.&gt; </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“¿Quieres hablar acerca de ello?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;Do you want to talk about it?&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head, and she says firmly with compassion before finally handing over his food-laden tray. “Vendré a ver cómo estás más tarde.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;I will come check on you later.&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Abi closes the door after Sherlock mouths his thanks. He brings the covered tray to his bed before wiping the tears and snot off his face with a fresh tissue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh well, he shall play the role of the jilted heartbroken lover far away from home. For now, he is permitted to be as emotionally unstable as he likes.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Two days had passed before Mycroft found time to return to the letters. Sitting back down in his armchair, he pours himself another few fingers of the Glenfiddich, takes a sniff of the expensive notes with an appreciative air and indulges himself with a sip before putting the tumbler back down again on a plain coaster. Looking to the right, he takes a brief, yet affectionate look at the framed picture of Sherlock and himself that he had nicked from his brother’s bedroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sadly, he didn’t have any other pictures of Sherlock besides stills from CCTVs. Mummy undoubtedly had some, but Mycroft would rather not deal with his parents in person if he didn’t have to. They are well-intentioned, but never really understood their precocious and intelligent children. The next time he gets summoned back home, he will have a look. He picks up the next scrap from Sherlock’s shoebox. It is written on an irregularly-shaped piece of nitrocellulose, likely taken from a laboratory at Bart’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your back pains you today, dear. I can see the discomfort on your face. How you try and deliberately sit with a better posture, and periodically move to find yourself a more comfortable position. You’ve had a long day, no doubt with the myriad of imbeciles that you have to play nice with on a day-to-day basis. I know how that feels too, but I have the option of throwing them out of my flat when they grow too tedious. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft snorts at that. Sherlock’s threshold for suffering idiots is quite limited. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know you could probably do that too, and no one would bat an eye except for the idiot you report to. Bah. How do you suffer that fool day in and day out? But, I digress, darling. You had no idea how much I wanted to draw you a bath and massage your aching back. I am quite good at it, you know. Learned my skills from this wizened and tiny Chinese lady who runs a herbal shop in Chinatown. I did it for Mrs. Hudson a few times to get rid of her nasty tension headache that she gets from reading too long. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t thrown me out yet. Ha. But, if I offered, you would think that there’s a catch. That I have a nefarious intention behind my generosity. But, dearest… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Why is his brother in the habit of leaving his letters unfinished? Especially whenever things grow too sentimental? He had grinned a little when his brother had mentioned the idiot he has to play nice with. Ah. The Prime Minister remains as ghastly as ever. And, he could have definitely used this back massage… and maybe they could escalate it to other forms of friction between body parts… He grabs the next piece, writ on a piece of cardboard.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You know, dear. I don’t even know how this all started. Of when my perceptions of you began to change. The medical lingo would describe it as chronic and insidious in character. But one of the first times I noticed it was when you were standing in my flat, next to my favourite window. Those long legs of yours, ending in a pert bum. The suit cut to emphasize the broadness of your shoulders and the slenderness of your torso. I… just couldn’t stop staring. I think I almost licked my lips. It is a wonder that you didn’t even appear to notice. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. He remembers this day. He had been looking out of Sherlock’s window, because if he didn’t, he would have been staring at his brother like a dimwitted goldfish. But definitely, Dr. Watson does not have long legs and does not have the habit of wearing suits casually at home. And he is sure that Sherlock is not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>blind. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course, at the end of it all, I insulted you with another cake joke. But the truth is, darling, is that I couldn’t handle my new insight, let alone what it could mean. You are a remarkably handsome man who hasn’t needed a diet since your adolescence. Strong too. I remember how you used to practice your martial arts on bags. I remember how you defended me from that dealer all those years ago. I might have been high or in withdrawal, I don’t quite recall. But I remember my brother. My saviour of that night. I think he might have raped me had you not been there. It’s what he had been doing to all of his clients who couldn’t pony up the pounds. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Clenching his fist, Mycroft takes another mouthful of whiskey. Fuck. He didn’t punch that vile man hard enough. That disgusting lowlife ought to be dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A chill runs through his spine. Did his brother get raped before? Forced to commit sexual acts during the worst of his addiction? He would never know. Sorrow tempers the happiness of confirming that Sherlock would be receptive to the letters he had accidentally placed in the packet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calling it a night – for he cannot handle another letter of that magnitude, he leaves for bed. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>4. </b>
</h1><p>
  <span>Legwork. Mycroft is reminded why he is not a fan of it within a few humid hours in Indonesia. Dressed as a tourist, in a maya-blue Hawaiian shirt (complete with palm trees, colourful parrots and pineapples?!?) a pair of shorts and sandals – he feels naked and absurd. Already, he is missing his three-piece suits; his usual armor against the elements – even though they would be ruined here in this climate. His hair is already sticking to his scalp, and his sweat is washing off the supposedly waterproof sunscreen that he had put on barely twenty minutes ago. Beaches and the sun do not agree with his fair complexion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He probably looks worse than a wilted plant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was a stupid idea. He sighs as he walks along the shore of Tanjung Aan with the soft white sand tumbling between his toes. There are only a few tourists here, today – each looking as clueless as he does – and Mycroft does not do clueless well. His back is beginning to ache – a combination of a god-knows-how-long series of flights (at a certain point, even his brain had given up counting the hours – considering the delays and what-not) and the heavy pack that he had to carry on his back for the past few hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How does little brother deal with this – day in and day out? Hm… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rock formation – Batu Payung – looms ahead of him, jutting out of the sand. Does it look more like a face… or an umbrella? A common debate amongst the locals and the tourists. The place is absolutely deserted, with the exception of a tanned local sitting on a rock. A mound of coconuts are piled up next to him. He is attired in a baggy blue shirt and a pair of equally ill-fitting pair of tan trousers – with a portion of the legs hacked off to form shorts. A wide-brimmed straw hat protects his face. A coconut seller with a slow day for business. Mycroft deduces before he walks onward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did he really think he could play agent again? Traveling across the globe to hand off some documents to his brother – who is nowhere to be found? And… what the hell does he even do when he does meet up with Sherlock? He has no plan besides: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, hello – brother dear. I read your letters. I hope you read mine. I love you too. Let’s fuck? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ha. Romantic. The intelligence had said that Sherlock is supposed to be located somewhere along the shores of this beach, and Mycroft hadn’t seen any sign of his brother anywhere. Where on earth is he? His brother isn’t actively dismantling cells right now – now laying low after a spectacular collapse of Moriarity’s Hong Kong operation. He couldn’t very well walk this beach like a worried mother, shouting for his brother… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His throat is rather parched – and those coconuts are starting to sound like an awfully good idea. After taking a selfie with the ‘umbrella-shaped’ rock, he heads back to the lonely coconut dealer who is now entertaining himself by taking a knife to a block of wood. Carving. When Mycroft approaches, the man looks up with his brown eyes – </span>
  <em>
    <span>can I help you?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Coconut?” Mycroft points to a fairly sized specimen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“5,000.” The seller picks up the indicated coconut and with a larger knife, he slices off the top as Mycroft fumbles with the fanny pack around his waist to take out a 5,000 rupiah bill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if anticipating a potential question, the man says – in mildly accented English. “No straw. Bad for environment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, I see.” Mycroft takes the coconut and pays the environmentally-conscious man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as he is about to drink, the seller has the audacity to wink at him and he drops his coconut in shock – spilling the water. Mycroft could actually feel his heart hammering against his chest. The demeanour of the dealer of coconuts is gone, replaced by his brother’s more playful one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be another 5,000 for another coconut.” Sherlock deadpans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s… all your fault.” He is almost stammering – utterly flabbergasted – his eyes till looking dumbfoundedly between his brother (a sight for his sore eyes) and the fallen coconut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly. Quietly, he says – his voice barely audible. “Mycroft, you can afford it. Don’t be stingy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is not the point.” He forks out another bill because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself, and Sherlock cuts him another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drinks, enjoying the light milky taste. It is sweet, but tempered a bit with a slightly salty flavour. It is perfect, for it is a coconut picked and cut by his brother. Sherlock slices himself one as well, and takes an enormous mouthful of the milk within. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Business is slow?” Mycroft has no idea what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shrugs. “Some days are better than others.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a place?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s hand reaches for Mycroft’s wrist; his fingers lightly press over his wrist – taking his for-certain tachycardic pulse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft… Mycroft… Mycroft... propositioning me already? I don’t put out on the first date – just so you know.” The little teasing smile Sherlock offers is delicious – making Mycroft’s arduous trek over here instantly worthwhile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bloody fuck. Good Lord. This is real. The fact that Mycroft had found Sherlock’s letters, and that Sherlock had read his mistakenly delivered ones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just maybe… this wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft is taken to a rundown house (shack?) located almost an hour’s walk away. An air of neglect and swirls of dust greet him when Sherlock unlocks and pushes open the faded and chipped front door. The quarters are cramped; they both have to stoop to avoid hitting their heads against the ceiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sorry I can’t offer you something better.” Sherlock says as he tugs at an old string to turn on a few dim incandescent light bulbs in a room where the kitchen and living room are fused together. “If I had known you were coming, I might have cleaned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It… uh… doesn’t matter.” Mycroft is having a hard time figuring out what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With relief, he places his pack on the least dusty part of the floor.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could cook if you are hungry…” His brother offers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He surveys the surroundings dubiously. A fire hazard. And since when could little brother cook? His stomach – its existence completely forgotten since his last meal on the plane – decides to make itself known; it causes Sherlock to immediately go to the ancient fridge without another word. It is probably the most well-stocked fridge that Mycroft has ever seen Sherlock keep on his own. Previously steamed rice, eggs, a bag of shrimp, a carrot and a bag of peas are taken out, before his brother busies himself with making fried rice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point, his brother had lost his hat – revealing his shorn head. He is leaner than when Mycroft had seen him last – but far more muscular. His tan allows him to blend in with the locals – aided by a bit of expertly applied makeup. Sherlock cooks the eggs first – scrambled – before tossing everything else into the cast-iron pan – quickly frying everything with the gas-stove. Promising aromas waft toward Mycroft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, they are sitting down on the dusty floor – their table an upturned and sturdy cardboard box. To be honest, this is no worse than the drug dens and even some of the flats that Sherlock had inhabited during the dark days. Mycroft picks up his chopsticks and attacks his bowl of fried rice with a relish, while Sherlock reaches over to grab one of the mutton satay that he had reheated from the plate located between them. There are glasses of coconut water to quench their thirst. They both focus on eating. For Mycroft – it is mainly that he is still tongue-tied. The food is surprisingly tasty – and he just simply alternates between moving his mouth and watching his brother – satisfying two appetites at once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… am glad you came.” Sherlock breaks the silence, after scraping the last of the rice from his plate. “I could have taken you outside for dinner, but then we wouldn’t have been able to converse as us. Brother… it’s been difficult – the last few months…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Moriarty built himself quite an empire. Smuggling, trafficking, drugs – everything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft. It’s the downtime that’s the worst. It is… for a lack of a better word – lonely. It is during this time that I think of home. Think of Baker Street. The rain. The cases. Even the clients. Sometimes even the drugs. You know – when I was in Colombia – Medellín – to be precise –  I thought about it. The cocaine. My veins itched for it – my brain whispers – just once. Just this once. But I didn’t. The people I was with sometimes had drugs – and that made it even harder to say ‘no’. It would feel good when the needle goes in – or to take in that first snort, but I know and you know that withdrawal is hell. And I would lose a couple of days that I couldn’t have afforded to lose. But anyways – I missed my violin, missed my skull – most of all I missed…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your flatmate?” Mycroft offers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Sherlock shakes his head fiercely. “I missed you.” He then adds, more quietly. “I never dreamed that you would go through my bedroom and find those letters. I know you did, or you wouldn’t have come here. Half a world away. I’ve been telling myself for months to toss them into the fireplace before I left London. I always lamented to John that written correspondence on such sensitive matters is irrational…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am glad you didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am glad I didn’t either.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock pushes the cardboard box out of the way and before Mycroft could say another word, he has a lapful of eager little brother. A hug. Sherlock’s arms tight around his shoulders. His chin rests on one shoulder while his cheek rests slightly against Mycroft’s own. Mycroft smells a mix of salt, sweat, the food that they had just consumed and something intrinsically Sherlock. Tentatively, he caresses Sherlock’s back – brushing against the rough fabric of his shirt. At the touch, his brother relaxes visibly – seeming to unburden himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what burdens he must carry! The things he’s seen. The temptations! The things he must have done. With the price of three lives that mean something to his brother at stake. And then, Mycroft realizes that Sherlock is crying, instantly bringing him back to the days of their childhood. It brings an ache straight to his heart. His hand reaches up to Sherlock’s head, gently stroking the soft short hair – a much different sensation from combing through the longer curls. He rather likes it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh… it’s alright.” Mycroft finds himself saying soothingly. “Everything will be okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother sniffs, before self-consciously replying. “This is embarrassing. Me. Tearing up like a child.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it.” Mycroft then adds, teasingly. “Only big boys cry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said that before to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… I did. A long time ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long do you have?” Sherlock asks then. There is something fragile about his voice, as if he is afraid that Mycroft would say that he would have to disappear at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A night… Then I will have to leave – after breakfast.” Mycroft sighs, feeling regretful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then we will make the most of it.” Sherlock says, firmly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That we shall.” Daringly, Mycroft tilts his head a little and brushes his lips gently against his brother’s cheek, earning himself a happy little noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fortuitously, there is hot running water in this house – so Mycroft had indulged himself in a short shower to wash all of the disgusting grime off his body. His brother had gone into the shower after him, and had come out of the bathroom – dressed in a shirt of better quality and a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms that he had evidently never worn before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Interesting. Mycroft knows that his brother has a preference for sleeping naked, but today – Sherlock seems to feel self-conscious about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What a contrast from how readily Sherlock had flaunted his naked body back in London – in his flat and out in public. That spectacle of Buckingham Palace stil replays itself readily in Mycroft’s mind. That is something that he will not forget till his dying day. It is different now – now that all these raw feelings – all these difficult emotions that are tangled up between them had been uprooted and exposed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A night most certainly would not be enough to sort it out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A year would not be enough either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother stands awkwardly next to the bed, as if he had never shared one before. Maybe… he is a virgin. Mycroft thinks – he still doesn’t know. Helpfully, he pats the small space next to him, and Sherlock gingerly climbs onto the old mattress which had long lost its firmness. It is too small for two grown men, but there are no other options in the house/shack. There isn’t even light in this room, only the single naked lightbulb in the loo illuminates the space through the gap between the door and the frame. It is barely enough to make out shapes. There isn’t even a window – only a small one in the wall of the shower that is barely large enough for a man to squeeze out of it in an emergency. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve never shared a bed before?” Mycroft finds the words leaving his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I have. With you when we were younger. With some forgettable people during my undergraduate years. With John once when we couldn’t find a hotel room with two beds. He was so squeamish about it…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. The I-am-not-gay Dr. Watson. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just that… this means something.” Sherlock says – his voice barely louder than a whisper. A gentle breeze in the otherwise stagnant air. “To me. And, Mycroft – I don’t think I am as experienced as you think I am. I kissed a girl and didn’t like it. Her lips felt… weird – with all that lipstick and… it just felt – wrong.” At Mycroft’s look, Sherlock clarifies, “It wasn’t Irene – it was one of those stupid party games with a wine bottle back at Cambridge that my roomate insisted that I join. I sucked a cock. Rather liked it – the dick at least – the man turned out to be a bigger one, so that didn’t go past one encounter. Other than that… no… I wasn’t the sybarite you drunkenly envisioned in that letter of yours. Can’t stand people long enough to make acquiring sex worthwhile, Mycroft.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And…” Mycroft just has to ask, “You mentioned in one of your letters –” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. No. I never was forced to do anything sexual to anyone. Mycroft.” Sherlock shifts closer, allowing their bodies to touch slightly. “But that night, before you came – I was mentally preparing myself for it. I didn’t have any more cash on me after paying for unexpected repairs to my landlord at the time, you see – and I owed Rich. I was debating whether or not to stick a few fingers up there with some sort of lubricant to make things easier – because Rich wouldn’t bother with such trivialities. Instead, I borrowed some heroin off someone who owed me a favour and got high. And the rest of the night is rather hazy – aside from your punch – big brother. He avoided me like the plague after that – wouldn’t sell anything to me, wouldn’t even look at me. From what I heard… his voice was never the same again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” It’s all what Mycroft could say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mindfully, he tempers down the anger threatening to flare up within him – and he feels sad that Sherlock had never come to him for help. That Sherlock could talk so tonelessly about losing his virginity in this nasty, traumatizing way. His brother deserved to be shown tenderness – love like anyone else, regardless of his troubles. Mentally, he makes a note to check up on this brute to see if he can ruin the man’s life even further, if he hadn’t fucked it up enough himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What goes around… comes around...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother reads it from his face. “You wouldn’t have given me the money – big brother. I remember, when you cut me off my trust, you said that I needed to feel the consequences of my actions. And this was certainly one of them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But not like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock changes the topic. “You are far more experienced than I am. I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft nods. “I dabbled a bit with men. During Oxford. And, when I started working – flings whenever I went abroad for the first few years before I got bored. Didn’t want to sleep where I shit, little brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, that’s why I could never deduce it from your person. But, Mycroft – do you expect –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I expect nothing from you, little brother. I will never want anything from you that isn’t what you are ready or willing to give.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… hold me?” Sherlock asks after a brief hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Mycroft immediately reaches over to wrap his brother in his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock molds himself against his torso, and sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should say this now, before I forget.” Mycroft says – for once sure of what he wants to say. And… how easy it is to say it! “I love you, my dear one. I missed you. I miss you every single day. Hardly a minute goes by without you in my thoughts. And I want you to know that I will always be there for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother doesn’t say anything, but slowly – he leans closer and with utmost care – but yet clumsily, he touches his lips to Mycroft’s. Mycroft has never experienced a sweeter kiss than with these inexperienced lips brushing tenderly against his own. Both of them are intent to learn this new language of expression between them; to learn the idiosyncrasies of each other’s bodies. Slowly, Mycroft takes control over the kiss. His brother learns quickly – following him, mirroring his movements. Fingers fumble at the buttons of Mycroft’s silky pyjama top – and Mycroft pushes him away lightly – </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me.” Mycroft says before Sherlock could voice his confusion. He says thoughtfully. “How far do you want to go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft. I want everything. I am just afraid... “ Sherlock whispers – suddenly sounding desperate. “That I will never get this chance again. That I will never see you again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will see me again.” Mycroft says with determination. “I believe in you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Love me, big brother.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Mycroft does, rolling his brother onto his back. He straddles Sherlock’s thighs with his legs, and his hands reach over to touch his brother’s face – now devoid of makeup. His fingers move to remove Sherlock’s clothes, revealing smooth skin. It is only a pity that they cannot see each other too well in the poorly lit room...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your phone.” Sherlock interrupts his thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh – Mycroft reaches over to the nightstand, where his phone is – connected to a battery pack. He switches on the flashlight app, and uses the side of a heavy book – the Quran – to prop it up, directing the beam towards them. Finally, finally – he could see his beloved; his Sherlock looking expectantly at him, waiting patiently. His torso is as pale as alabaster; he laments that he could count his brother’s ribs by sight alone. The contact lenses have been removed from his eyes – revealing their iridescent expressivity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not mine… the book. It was here before I arrived. I do look through it sometimes. I had to have it memorized when I was in the Middle East, brother dear. For my disguises.” Sherlock offers as Mycroft bends down to kiss him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft nibbles at a plush lip, taking his time to memorize everything about it – the shape and the feel – with the fervor that Sherlock must have done – flipping through the Quran while committing the passages in Arabic to memory while on the flight to Baghdad, knowing that a mistake could mean the difference between life and death. Of course, Moriarity had made connections amongst the insurgents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But for Mycroft – this is water for a parched man, wandering the deserts devoid of Sherlock for months on end – it is an absolutely essential fount of knowledge that he may never have access to again. They both gasp when Sherlock licks playfully at Mycroft’s lip, before slipping his tongue into his mouth – tangling their tongues together in an electrifying way, sending frissons down Mycroft’s body. Mycroft’s hand finds its way back to Sherlock’s cheek then the side of his head – attempting to regain control over this breathless kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pant when they break apart, taking a few seconds to catch their breaths – before their eyes meet again, his brother looking ever so vulnerable beneath him. As silly as it sounds – the sight really does take his breath away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are so gorgeous like this…” Mycroft whispers – his voice reverent, as his fingers proceed to caress the skin of his torso. “My beautiful darling, my brave adventurer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft, you are going to make me cry again…” Sherlock warns, relaxing once again into his touch, and he moans – surprised – when Mycroft mouths at his cotton covered crotch. “God – that feels so damned good!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s see if we can make it better – little brother.” Mycroft winks at him, teasingly before pulling down the bottoms with a little help from Sherlock – revealing a lovely thick and long cock – already flushed with blood, rising from his brother’s neatly-trimmed curls. Involuntarily, he licks his lips, before capturing the glans in his mouth – causing Sherlock’s hips to jerk at the unexpected sensation. His brother may have sucked a cock, but he had clearly never been a recipient of fellatio. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All sorts of noises escape Sherlock’s mouth – from delicious mewls of pleasure to curses as Mycroft swirls his tongue around his shaft, while covering the base of his brother’s cock with his hand. He wouldn’t attempt to deep throat here – it had been a long time since he had such a lovely prick in his mouth; he’s seriously out of practice. The fingers of his free hand gently stroke and squeeze the velvety sac containing the balls – feeling Sherlock’s scrotum tighten and grow heavier in his palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft – can we come together at least?” The words are hardly coherent, but Mycroft understands and lets his brother’s prick slip out of his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are hardly ready for penetrative sex. For one thing – no one had any lubricant. Mycroft pulls down his own pyjama bottoms, freeing his own aching cock – already feeling like he would spend soon. No, it is better to do something less invasive – especially if Sherlock had never orgasmed in front of another person. Never shared an act of mutual pleasure with another. He gathers both of their cocks – his is longer and slightly thicker than his brother’s, but not by much – in one of his hands, using their copious precum for lubrication. He deliberately strokes – watching his brother scrunch his eyes – paying close attention to the sensations that Mycroft evokes within him – his face an expression of obvious bliss. As he continues to frig their pricks, he has never felt such feelings rise in his chest – of affection, of eros, of longing, of sadness… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For nothing this good can last forever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meeting Sherlock’s eyes again – Mycroft asks – his own voice wavering in his ears. “Good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” His brother grunts. “I never knew... “ </span>
  <em>
    <span>that it could feel like this…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh Sherlock… Mycroft thinks… he didn’t know that sex could feel like this either. Nevertheless, he is glad sex has not been ruined for his brother; that they had the privilege (even if it is for just one night) to explore this with the one they loved the most in this world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s hips are trembling – shaking as he nears the brink. Mycroft adds a twist to his strokes, before he whispers tenderly. “Cum for me. Cum with me – little brother. Let go!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Sherlock does, spilling first – his hot cum spraying both their naked torsos. Seeing his brother – his beloved becoming carried away by the wave of hedonistic sensation – Mycroft cums immediately afterward. They both breathe loudly. Mycroft sits up against the wall, feeling like he had run a marathon. He pinches himself – this doesn’t feel real. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is a dream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fantasy – and tomorrow he will have to go back to London, to his bleak reality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be, once again, a worrier from afar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock sits up moments later, and unabashedly throws his arms around his brother – eagerly seeking post-coital affection. Mycroft engulfs him in a tight embrace – wishing that they could have… forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes up alone the next day, his arm encircling a worn-out pillow immersed with the scent of Sherlock. The events of last night seem to him like a dream – happenings on another plane of existence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had all that really happened? Having sex – frottage – with little brother? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loving him, learning him with the tenderest of touches? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He buries his nose in the pillow, inhaling greedily the aroma of memory. Where had Sherlock gone? After the sex, the cuddling – they had talked of inconsequential things, avoiding sensitive topics like the what the future would hold in store for them… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand brushes against a sheet of paper… another letter, written with haste in his brother’s hand. It reads:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mycroft,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am sorry. I couldn’t bear to stay. I couldn’t bear to say goodbye. I know I promised to watch the sunrise with you… but – unwanted eyes are always watching. It is a fantasy that we cannot bring to fruition. And even if we did, I could not say goodbye to you in the way I envisioned. And in the way you deserved. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Forgive me… dearest mine. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As I write this, you lay in repose, your breaths steady and reliable. A measure of the precious time we have together, ticking slowly away. I already miss you. It makes me think of (78.8) وَّخَلَقۡنٰكُمۡ اَزۡوَاجًا ۙ &lt;and, created you in pairs&gt; in the Qur’an. Of course, this is not the original intent as we are not man and woman as last night had demonstrated. But we are… I feel… meant to be. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are we not? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I left you breakfast on the stove. Eggs. Sunny-side up, like the way you had always preferred. And bubar ayam, congee the way the locals prefer it. Coffee too. I wish you safe travels. And watch the sunrise for me before you leave. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you. I love you for coming all this way. I love you for loving me despite all the wrong that I have committed in this life. Thank you for this night, for I will carry it in my heart till I draw my last breath. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Until we meet again, my love. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The paper is tearstained somewhat from a drop or two of his beloved’s tears in lieu of Sherlock’s signature. Mycroft will take this token back with him to London, where he will read it every day until he sees his Sherlock again. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>5.</b>
</h1><p>
  <span>The soft pitter patter of raindrops gives way to torrents of rainwater, hail and thunder. Mycroft instinctively wraps the quilt of his old childhood bed tighter around his torso. It almost seems like yesterday, when a much younger Lock would run into his room – seeking shelter from the storms. He could almost feel the weight of a young Sherlock in his lap – his little brother’s arms wrapped tight around him. So sure that his big brother would protect him from anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those days had long passed; it has been years (decades) since Sherlock had willingly sought out his protection so readily – and had Mycroft known it then, he would have treasured those old memories just a bit more. God. Mycroft wants nothing more than to bring his brother safely back to England into his arms instead of enduring these awful months of cold silence. Of course, he can track his brother’s whereabouts via the local news at wherever Sherlock is now – reading between the lines and via sparse tidings from their mutual contacts – but information is getting increasingly limited the further his brother gets with dismantling Moriarty’s distasteful web. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With care, Mycroft reaches for the thin envelope he had brought with him to his parents’ house. The seal is still intact. It had been brought back by one of his agents after a mission in Russia unrelated to what Sherlock had been doing at the time, but his brother had managed to sneak a packet to the right person at the right moment. He shakes his head. Leave it to his brother to take these unnecessary risks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bringing the envelope to his nose, he sniffs – hoping to get a whiff of his dearest – but there’s nothing of his Sherlock’s scent. He carefully cuts the envelope with a letter opener, and pulls out a few sheets of inked and folded Xuan paper with surprisingly exquisite calligraphy. Chinese. Traditional. Unexpected, considering the untidy scrawl that Sherlock usually writes with. His brother is clearly spending his downtime pursuing artistic pursuits. The last sheet is unfolded and blank, but Mycroft notices that it is slightly thicker than the rest. Hm. Mycroft slides the blade of his letter opener against one edge, and the paper easily gives way – splitting into three sheets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock you idiot!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mycroft catches sight of the middle sheet and stares in disbelief at what he’s seeing. A water-ink painting. Of Sherlock and himself. He has his arm around Lock’s shoulder. Their heads are turned slightly towards each other and – that look in Sherlock’s eyes. He recognizes it; he’s seen it in himself in the mirror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The longing. The desire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That wavering and familiar ache in his chest rises to the forefront of his consciousness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes the yearning is so bad that it paralyzes him. There are days that he cannot concentrate or sleep at all – feeling rather hopeless that he has no control over whether or not he will ever see his Sherlock again. He thinks back to their one shared night often (every night) – reading Sherlock’s hastily scrawled letter over and over again – to the point where the letter itself is worn and tattered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs again, looking at the painting – how worn and tired Sherlock looks by the creases on his dear face! The serenity of the background (a lake and mountains), painted in the old-school </span>
  <em>
    <span>shansui </span>
  </em>
  <span>style that the Chinese loved, contrasting the raw emotion of its two human lovers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Picking up the folded sheets, he reads – the characters run vertically:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mycroft. Brother mine. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know you are probably fuming at the risk I took to send this particular missive, but rest assured I took the utmost care to have it brought to you safely. As I write, I am in Lijiang, looking out toward the mountains from my temporary abode. I am recovering from a cold, and I am amusing myself by watching the artists who come around and paint the landscape here. Perhaps, I may have bought my own inks and paper and joined their ranks. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you. So much. I am consumed by thoughts of you as I lie low, waiting for the next opportunity to infiltrate our next target. Perhaps I was naive, but I thought that meeting you in the flesh, and sharing pleasure with you once would have been enough to assuage the hunger that gnaws within me. What foolishness! It’s more akin to trying heroin for the first time. But, oh so much more satisfying! The torch I carry within only seems to burn hotter with every passing week and month. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Everything seemed more when I was with you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My senses were ensnared by you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They still are. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God. Brother. How you touched me! How you loved me! Our kisses. The feeling of your cheek brushing against mine. Watching you at the height of pleasure. The way your features slacken with bliss. How vulnerable you look at that moment!  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wonder what you are doing right now. Are you sitting at Whitehall, carrying on? Do you think of me at all? Do you still love me? Or was that one time enough? Or do you think that these thoughts of mine are utterly silly? How do goldfish even cope? The longer I am apart from you, the more… uncertain I feel. About where I stand with you, big brother. Do you miss me as I miss you? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And that is to say, desperately. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I just want to see you again. Touch you. Kiss you. Love you. In all the ways a man can love another. Everything seems duller the day I left you in my bed. My sensorium is muted, despite my otherworldly surroundings. I can only imagine how much more brilliant the colours of the wildflowers, the majesty of the mountains and the tinkling gurgle of the streams that carry fresh mountain water down below if you were here with me now. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You may say, big brother, that such trivial things are beneath me based on my previous attitudes and behaviours, but things change. And have changed. Having time between tasks is both a solace and a curse. A solace because it gives me time to think of you. A curse because it gives me time to think of you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I cross a flagstone bridge, and I imagine holding your hand. Maybe even stopping and giving you a kiss over the waters. I walk to buy groceries at the market, and you are there beside me, debating about what would be the best dish to make for dinner. Perhaps a chicken and potato hotpot. A fish grilled over stone. Stir-fried eggs and tomato. Or over which vegetables to acquire. Oh, and the strawberries! You would love them, brother mine. They bring to mind our childhood summers. Or perhaps we would have dinner out, and brother dear, you would love the noodles served in hot savoury broth with mushrooms that the city is known for. Mayhaps we may roam the city instead and gorge on street food. The buns. The savoury and sweet pancakes. Yak butter ice cream!  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I stroll along the Blue Moon Valley, and I want you to see the yaks and beautiful blue stillness of the lake. You would be telling me how no one has ever summited Jade Dragon Snow Mountain without dying or giving up while we stand on the boardwalk 4,680 metres above sea level, and I would be thinking of ways to do so, to your chagrin. I can see you sitting with me now, sharing cuppas of hot and fragrant Pu Erh tea. You would perhaps tell me to go to bed, because I am coughing and still feverish and I would argue with you for a moment or two before reluctantly doing so. At some point my head would be in your lap, and you would be stroking my sweat-drenched curls. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss your touch, brother mine. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wonder if I will see you again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am sorry, big brother, for all the pain I’ve ever caused you. You deserved none of it. I revisit my sins toward you frequently, and I only wished that I realized sooner how important and dear you are to me. I would give anything to see you again. To hear your voice. To smell you. Taste you. I am rambling. But surely you can find it within yourself to forgive your poor heartsick brother for this particular offense as he is lonely and halfway across the world. With the rare opportunity to make himself heard to the one who matters the most. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If the inevitable, as we have discussed before I had left the country, happens, know that I love you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Forever and always.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no signature. Only dried spots that Mycroft strongly suspects are from Sherlock’s tears. His own vision is starting to blur as he refolds the papers, idly tracing the characters that make up his own name. He presses the papers against his own lonely lips, wishing desperately that he was with Sherlock now. Who is probably still in Lijiang. He hasn’t heard any word about his brother’s movements in the last month or so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No news is good news. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could fly there. It would take a day and a half from Heathrow. He could go disguised, as he had done in Indonesia. He could imagine the surprise on Sherlock’s dear face after stumbling upon him. Maybe in a stone-paved alleyway, or one of those bridges that Sherlock had mentioned in his letter. Carry out some of his brother’s surprisingly tame and domestic fantasies. The nature of them gives him hope, as Sherlock can see a life with him in the future. But it would be highly unwise to follow through with this impulsive idea. He has no reason to be traveling to China at the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This must be what wartime lovers </span>
  <em>
    <span>(war brides, girlfriends)</span>
  </em>
  <span> must have felt back in the years of limited communications technology. Of World War I, perhaps. Even WWII. Only that no one could ever know about the nature of his love, outside of brotherly. This is truly a love that cannot be named, except between himself and his brother. His parents may not know of it, even though he wants to yell it out to Mummy in frustration whenever she complains that he isn’t doing enough to keep track of Sherlock. To keep him safe. There’s only so much his agents and he could do from so far away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must keep faith in his brother, and carry his burdens alone. As he has always done so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a rap at the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft? Dinner is ready.” Mummy’s voice comes through the cracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft wipes at his eyes with the dorsum of his hand. “Will be down in a moment.” He replies, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carefully he places the letter and the precious painting (which he will frame and place in his bedroom) back into the envelope and places it in his secure briefcase, where it lies with Sherlock’s well-wrinkled letter from Indonesia and a stack of photographs of Sherlock and himself from their childhood days. He had spent a productive morning combing through the attic for their old pictures. He locks it, before finally rolling out of bed – the rain has subsided somewhat – and heads to the loo to clean himself up, fortifying himself for the dinner conversations that lie ahead with his parents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fortunately, he will leave the next day – yet he will miss all the ghosts of their happy childhood memories that prowl about, allowing him to feel close to Lock in a way he hasn’t felt since leaving Indonesia all those months ago.    </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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